Certainly the Finest Balm
by Akimbo And Askew
Summary: Or, "Five Times That Molly Fell a Little Bit Out of Love With Sherlock." After Reichenbach, Molly comes to grips with her new role in Sherlock's life. Molly/Sherlock friendship with some Johnlock fluff.
1. I: 12

_A/N: As promised, the first of two companion pieces to "If One Has Not Dined Well." This installment is a 5+1 exploring Molly's role in Sherlock's post-Reichenbach mission. I realize that, on the surface, this may not seem like a particularly fun or slashy romp, but please stick with me. Despite Molly and Reichenbach, y'all are in for some major Johnlock fluff!_

_Remember the last pithy disclaimer? Go ahead and stick it here:_

"Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love."

_Jane Austen_

* * *

I. _12 Hours Post-Reichenbach_

He looked swollen and shaken, but strangely beautiful, Molly reflected.

They were headed home, each consumed by their actions. Sherlock had just successfully faked his own death; Molly had made it possible. She tried not to think too much about the ramifications of her actions. She'd mislead her colleagues and falsified her own reports to get through the first round of inquiry. Tomorrow, she and Sherlock would meet with his coroner to finish the work. There would be no post-mortem and the body approved for cremation. The inquest would be perfunctory at best.

Disappearing seemed downright easy when one had the backing of the British government.

Despite his brother's involvement, Sherlock had refused to stay with him. The Work must continue, and he could not do that work if Mycroft had him trapped at the family's country estate. Sherlock needed – had demanded – a smaller, more innocuous base for his operations. Molly offered her flat without question.

Just as she had agreed to this entire enterprise. Without question.

Besides, Sherlock had made it clear that his staying with Molly would be temporary. Moriarty – _Jim? _– had made some fatal mistake, and Sherlock needed to find a way to end this. He would be gone in days.

Molly led Sherlock up the back stairs to her flat. She could see his eyes flickering, taking in her surroundings, adjusting his deductions. She felt more than a bit naked as she unlocked the front door and let him inside.

She dropped her purse and the shopping onto the front table.

"It's a little – well, _little_," she mumbled.

"No," he replied hoarsely, "it's adequate."

"Thanks. Loo's through there. I'll go ahead and make up the guest bed."

Wordlessly, he took the shopping bag and locked himself in the loo.

In her office, Molly pulled the throw pillows off the daybed, shooing Toby away. She tried valiantly not to think about the fact that Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes was in her flat. Was using her loo. Was probably _naked_ at this very –

Well, that was enough of that.

Molly wasn't a fool; she knew that Sherlock had no real affection for her. Even now, she couldn't be completely sure that he wasn't just using her to make his escape. For the past five years, he'd given her plenty of emphatic, incontrovertible evidence against a potential relationship. Still, since he'd first turned up, Sherlock had been a near constant in her life.

She remembered, quite clearly, the day that DI Lestrade had marched Sherlock into the mortuary lab. He'd been wan and sullen, eyes enormous and hands trembling. Greg had sighed and explained that the young man - far too boyish to be a grad student - was a new adjunct lecturer at St. Bart's. He was to have full run of the lab and would share Molly's workspace.

It was only through Herculean efforts that Molly had been able to learn anything at all about her labmate. His name was Sherlock, and, despite his appearance, he was twenty-five. He consulted with Scotland Yard; everyone there hated him. He was addicted to heroin and cocaine but had to stay clean in order to work.

Molly had never been confident or clever around men (around any living being, for that matter - hence her field of study). Despite her blundering and his rebuffs, she remained preoccupied by the world's only consulting detective. So much so that she had continued to let him work in the lab, even after his formal dismissal from the hospital.

When Sherlock emerged from the loo two hours later, he was ginger. Molly had to clap a hand over her mouth.

"Why are you so surprised?" he groused. "_You_ picked the color!"

"Yes, but there's a difference between seeing it on the bottle and seeing it on you."

He nodded stiffly, slipping past her and into the guest bedroom.

"Do you want me to see about your head?" she asked softly.

"Yes. That would be helpful."

He sat on the guest bed, brand new plaid dressing gown pulled about his long frame. Molly leaned over him, parting his hair around the gash.

"Didn't it hurt to dye your hair?"

"The pain was irrelevant."

"Yes, but you've irritated the skin. It's getting infected."

She paused to put on a pair of gloves from her first aid kit, then cleaned out the wound once again. She held it shut with one hand and applied a set of butterfly bandages. All the while, Sherlock stared straight ahead, apparently oblivious to her actions.

"Why didn't you stitch it?" he complained.

_Not so oblivious, then._

"I - I'm not used to treating live patients," Molly stammered. "Besides, I don't have any anesthetic or sutures."

Sherlock scoffed.

"John always has sutures around the flat. And I don't need anesthetic!"

"I suppose John is more used to this."

"He is. And he always stitches me very carefully so that I don't scar. Don't you have _any_ skills outside your very limited area of specialty?"

Molly felt her cheeks flush, but she managed to meet Sherlock's sneer.

"You could've asked John to do this, but you didn't. You asked me. So you're just going to have to get used to my 'very limited' skill set."

Sherlock huffed and lay down on the day bed.

"I've had a very taxing day. I'm going to sleep now."

"Suit yourself," Molly replied, gathering up the first aid kit and flipping off the lights.

"Wanker," she would later mutter into her tea.


	2. II: 36

_A/N: Thanks, everyone for the reviews and adds! As usual, insert your own pithy disclaimer..._

_...here._

"Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love."

_Jane Austen_

* * *

II. _36 hours Post-Reichenbach_

As Molly unlocked the door to her flat, she realized that Sherlock definitely wasn't alone. When he'd sent her out two hours ago, he had been sulking in his dressing gown. Now she could hear him half-shouting at some mumbling voice.

"Get out," he growled. "Just get out. Everywhere you go, you put my friends in danger."

Molly paused, hand still resting on the door knob.

Despite the circumstances, it was nice to hear him insinuate that she was, in fact, his friend. And two days ago, he'd seemed horrified to hear that she didn't think she even _mattered_ to him.

Lost in thought, Molly squeaked as her door was roughly pulled open. Sherlock eyed her carefully; behind him, Mycroft was massaging his temple warily.

"Do come in, Molly. There's no need to lurk outside your own flat," the elder Holmes muttered.

"Yes, Molly," Sherlock added, "it's terribly conspicuous."

"Oh," she replied, stepping inside. "I got the things you asked for."

Sherlock pulled the shopping bags from her hands, then set off for his temporary bedroom.

"Good day, Mycroft," he called over his shoulder.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"And I suppose there's little point in asking _you_ to talk some sense into him?"

"No, sir," she said carefully.

"Well, then. I'll be off."

Mycroft swept out of her flat dramatically; Molly locked the door behind him, then padded toward the kitchen.

It was really happening, then. Sherlock was leaving. She could hear him stuffing his few possessions into the new rucksack she had picked up for him. Molly busied herself with making him a parting cup of tea.

_Just the sort of thing John would want me to do_.

As the kettle bubbled, Molly rubbed her eyes and loosened her pony-tail. To call today difficult would be among the more notable understatements she'd made recently.

They'd had to tell John, today.

Early that morning, Molly had dropped Sherlock off at the morgue with a "relatively low-level" government employee who happened to hold a degree in biomedical sciences. The two had carefully dosed Sherlock with his preferred grayanotoxins. Yesterday, they had worked for hours to create post-mortem photos of his "fatal" injury; today the unnamed coroner would document the rest of Sherlock's body. Once he was sedated, Mycroft had arrived to discuss the particulars of Sherlock's estate.

Even Molly had been able to deduce that Mycroft was unusually irritated with his brother on the subject of his will. It seemed that Sherlock had rather upset Mycroft's expectations by having a very thorough and reasonable will written six months ago, naming DI Lestrade as executor and leaving most of his assets to one Dr. John Hamish Watson. This simply would not do. Mycroft had destroyed the will in a fit of pique and declared that his brother had died intestate.

Molly was quickly learning that there were few things that Mycroft Holmes _couldn't_ make disappear.

All the remained of Sherlock's "in case of death" strong box was a beautifully handwritten letter requesting that his remains be cremated. Mycroft would present this to John as he arrived, at least twenty minutes too late to stop the procedure. Once Mycroft had explained this portion of the plan to Molly, she had excused herself to be violently sick in the ladies' toilet across the hall.

The rest of the day had not gone much better. After Sherlock had been roused from his toxic nap time, he had left to make his travel arrangements. Not half an hour later, John had arrived at the morgue. There had been the expected shouting as Mycroft informed him that, no, he could not view Sherlock's body. Molly had helped the coroner restrain John when he'd lunged for Mycroft's throat.

After that incident, Molly had taken John back to Baker Street to help him through the funeral preparations. When she had finally arrived back at her own flat, an irritable Sherlock clothed in only his dressing gown had forcibly shoved her back out the door, declaring that he needed a rucksack and a fresh set of clothes immediately.

And now she was home again, fixing Sherlock a cup of tea.

She poured the water carefully, adding one of her better tea bags. Setting the cup on her tea tray beside the milk and sugar, she carried it in to Sherlock.

He was dressed now and nearly done packing; the rucksack was slung over one shoulder and he was stuffing his new mobile phone into his trouser pocket.

"Tea?" Molly asked softly.

Wordlessly, Sherlock took the cup and added milk. He sipped for a moment, then slammed the cup back on the tray.

"What is this?" he demanded, knocking the tray from Molly's hands. The cup and sugar dish shattered unpleasantly, coating the rug with their contents.

"Tea! My mum's favorite blend. Look what you've done!"

"I was surprised by how horrid it tasted. John always makes Darjeeling from the little Indian shop."

Molly knelt and began collecting shard of her tea set on the tray. She stood again, eying Sherlock angrily.

"Or," she began, "'Thank you.' Thank you would also be an appropriate response."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Thank you, Molly. I'm leaving now and I shan't be back for several weeks."

Molly nodded as he swept out of her flat.

"Prat" she would grumble as she mopped up the spilled tea.


	3. III: 2,000

_A/N: My whole office (granted, this is a total of 5 people) just left me here for the last half hour of work, so I'm being terrible and posting from here. This chapter is dedicated to my dear Spouse, who requested this situation. All usual disclaimers apply._

"Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love."

_Jane Austen_

* * *

III. _2,000 Hours Post-Reichenbach_

Gentle raindrops pattered against Molly's front window. Pulling her cardigan close, she shooed Toby out of her armchair and settled in. She tucked a blanket around herself and set her novel face down on her knees. Reaching for her mug, she blew into the swirling steam of her tea.

Sunday afternoons were her favorite time of the week.

Since Sherlock had swept out of her flat, Molly's life had settled back into its quiet predictability. She spent her days at the morgue, working through mundane, simple deaths. On very rare occasions, someone from the Yard would appear, checking over the more gruesome specimens.

John had not been back; he couldn't seem to come near the hospital. Molly didn't blame him, of course. The pain was still too fresh for most of them. She couldn't be entirely sure, but Molly doubted that John was still consulting with Lestrade or his team. Since the funeral, Molly had tried to remain loosely attached to Sherlock's flatmate. They had never been close, but Molly stopped by Baker Street every few weeks to stock John's refrigerator with frozen dinners. On the days she visited, John largely ignored her. Very, very occasionally, he would offer her a glass of wine and the two would reminisce about their dearly departed consulting detective.

Said consulting detective had returned to Molly's flat only twice since his death. Each time, he flew inside, choked down whatever food she offered him, and slept heavily. He would still be asleep when Molly left for work but had always vanished by the time she returned home. Each time, he had left piles of color-coded notes and CCTV stills littered around her office; Molly dutifully collected these into a file that she left under the daybed.

Between his infrequent visits, Sherlock rarely contacted her. He texted a blank message to Molly every Sunday to let her know that he was still alive. Once, he had warned her that he'd be out of communication for over a week. With the exception of that mystery week, Molly always replied with a brief updates on Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and John:

_Sad, sad, sad._

_Lonely, depressed, not speaking._

_Better, drinking, no contact._

Sherlock never acknowledged that he received these messages, but Molly continued to send them regardless. From what little Sherlock had explained to her, Molly knew that he had faked his death to protect those three people. As far as she was concerned, he needed to know how his plan was affecting them.

Molly sipped her tea, staring out the window. Toby tentatively climbed back into her lap, lying across her forgotten novel. From the mantel, her clock chimed for three o'clock. Sherlock would be contacting her any moment now. At least she would have good news for him this week – Lestrade had gotten his drinking in check and John was going back to work.

An insistent pounding on her front door yanked Molly out of her thoughts. Setting book and mug back on her table warily, she headed toward the noise. Through the peephole, she could see an older man, skin yellowed and sagging, hair impossibly pale. He clutched his overcoat around himself and began thumping his fist against her door once again.

"Please," he rasped, "please let me in! There's these boys, they chased me up this way! They've got a gun!"

Before her brain could remind her what a phenomenally idiotic idea this was, Molly slid the chain off her door and twisted the deadbolt. Hunched and limping, the older man pushed past her into the flat.

"Can I get you any – "

He pulled a pistol out of his waistband and stood up straighter. In the light, he looked much, much younger and far more menacing.

She shrieked and the man rolled his eyes painfully.

"All the pillows and cushions you can find. Pile them here!"

The voice was unmistakable.

"Sherlock?"

"Hurry!"

_Oh. So he's blonde now._

As Molly hurried through her flat collecting pillows and cushions, she wondered what exactly it was about this man that made everyone around him simply snap to attention. Why the hell should she be doing this – letting Sherlock come into her flat and wave a gun around? Was she mad?

Once she had dumped her armload in the front room, Sherlock fired – without warning – into the pile. Molly couldn't help but shriek again, earning another long-suffering look from Sherlock.

"For god's sake Molly, it's just a gun. Now dig that bullet out and bring it to me. I have to change."

He swept toward her office, loosening his coat as he went, leaving Molly to stare at the cushions before her.

_What._

_The._

_Hell?_

"Don't gawk, Molly, I need these results immediately!"

Unsure of what else to do, Molly began locating the slug inside her now ruined bed pillows. Upon finding it, she tried to pull it back through the hole with her fingers. With a startled yelp, she dropped the bullet and put her fingers in her mouth. A few moments later, she pulled on her gardening gloves and tried again.

"Are you quite finished contaminating my evidence?" Sherlock complained from the doorway. He held out his hand and Molly pressed the slug into his palm; naturally, he seemed unaffected by the hot bit of lead.

"I can't stay today. I need to match this bullet to an assassination attempt. Do dispose of the gun properly."

Molly bit her lip.

"But if you're matching the ballistics, why should I de – "

Sherlock sighed heavily, massaging his temple.

"Never mind," Molly murmured.

He swept out again, rucksack now more secure against his back. In the brief moment that Molly had gotten a clear look at him, however, she saw that his skin was just as yellowed and loose as before. Clearly, he wasn't taking care of himself.

Her eyes fell on the gun and she brought a hand up to massage her temple.

"Psychopath!" she would later complain as the pistol slipped into the Thames.


	4. IV: 8,766

_A/N: This section follows immediately after Chapter 6 of "If One Has Not Dined Well," aka "The Toasted Sandwiches Incident." From here on out, we're heading into Johnlock country._

_Pithy disclaimer? Pithy disclaimer._

"Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love."

_Jane Austen_

* * *

IV. _8766 Hours Post-Reichenbach_

Sherlock hadn't left her flat since the toasted sandwiches incident. At first, Molly had been pleased – it would give the poor man an opportunity to rest and eat without the constant stress of traveling incognito. Despite her annoyance that his first non-text message contact in six weeks had been full of frantic demands, Molly was genuinely pleased that he'd come back to London.

He wouldn't – couldn't, really – give her any more details about his case. All Molly could glean from him was that he'd been making excellent progress before suddenly hitting a wall in the investigation. Based on his ramblings over tea (a simple Darjeeling she'd asked John to recommend), the trail had gone cold either immediately before or after Sherlock's most recent arrival in London.

Still, in the week since his reappearance, Molly found her patience with the man wearing remarkably thin. In the three days between "the toastie debacle" and the anniversary of his death, Sherlock had refused any food or drink except toast and tea. He attended his own memorial service, hidden among mourners at a fresh grave some fifty yards from his own. Molly had arranged to keep her body between Sherlock and John at all times. However, only when Mycroft stepped disdainfully into the cemetery had Molly needed to worry about Sherlock blowing his own cover. Even then, he had admirably refrained from strangling his brother.

When Molly had returned home from the impromptu supper at Baker Street, she discovered that Sherlock had completely emptied her pantry onto the kitchen floor and had apparently liberated her "emergency" stash of sweets.

"Sherlock!" she called, scooping her pasta boxes onto the kitchen table. "Sherlock, come out here and talk to me!"

Even in her temper, Molly didn't want to corner Sherlock. He'd as soon scarper as return any abuse she hurled at him.

"Sherlock?" she tried again, making neat piles of tins and boxes on the table.

When he still didn't answer, Molly decided to look for him once she'd repacked her cupboards. She refused to be thankful for the hurricane he'd loosed in her kitchen, but now at least she knew where she'd put her instant rice.

Half an hour later, Molly stopped briefly in her bedroom to change out of her mourning clothes. Wrapping her biggest cardigan around her shoulders, Molly prepared herself for another round of Find-the-Sherlock. Retracing her steps, she verified that he was not hiding behind any of her furniture in the front room, nor had he snuck into any cupboards while she'd been out of the kitchen. Months ago, she'd happened upon him in each location, irritated that her surprised yelps had interrupted his thinking.

As Molly expected, she found Sherlock in her office after all. He wasn't missing or even hiding – simply ignoring her. As so often before, he lay flat out on the daybed, dressing gown pulled around his rumpled clothes and fingers steepled in front of his lips. This time, however, there were several half-eaten Bakewell tarts scattered around the daybed – and tucked on top of his stomach was a creamy cable-knit cushion that Molly had never seen before.

"I will give it back," Sherlock muttered without bothering to open his eyes.

Upon closer inspection, Molly realized that the cushion was actually one of John's jumpers wrapped around a bed pillow. Even for a man who consistently texted her asking for human organs, this was a bit _creepy_.

"Sherlock! Where did you get that?"

"From the flat, of course."

"When?"

"When I went to make John toasted sandwiches. It was sitting in the hamper and I took it."

"Sherlock – "

"I know!" he shouted, sitting up suddenly and clutching the jumper to his chest. "I'll give it back before John notices that it's gone!"

Squaring her shoulders, Molly moved to sit on the daybed beside Sherlock.

"Sherlock, why did you take it?"

"Because it's John's," he intoned.

"And you miss him?"

"Damnit, Molly!" Sherlock cried, jumping up. He began pacing the room cagedly. "Don't be so dull, so mundane!"

"Sherlock, I – "

"Just shut up! I can't think with you prattling on about _missing_ people! Does one _miss_ their left ventricle? Their medulla? Their _amygdal__a_? Why must you insist – "

Molly blinked back tears and tried to work through the Sherlock's outburst, even as he continued to mutter and pace.

The left ventricle was easy enough; it pumped oxygenated blood into the rest of the body.

The medulla?

_Controls reflexes, heartbeat, breathing_.

And the amygdala?

_Emotion, memory, recent ties to sexual orientation?_

_Doesn't miss him my arse!_

Molly looked back to Sherlock, ready to confront him. Before she could, however, she realized that he had changed his tactic to simply insult her until she noticed him again.

" – with your second-best shoes, trying to pull me of all people!"

"What! Wh – why are you – "

"Don't stammer, Molly. Nobody finds it attractive. Really, if you – "

"Will you just stop it!" Molly finally shouted, rising from the day bed. "You're always so mean and I've never understood why. Maybe I have no idea how to act around you, but I've never tried to be anything but nice to you and you're just – so mean!"

"I'm not 'mean,' as you so eloquently put it. I'm efficient. I have neither the time nor the inclination to humor your 'niceness.'"

"Get out," Molly said, her voice clear and dangerous. "You're only here because I _let_ you flounce around, ruining all my things, completely derailing my daily life. And I don't want you here anymore. Get. Out."

"I was leaving anyway!" he returned. "Your stupidity has been deafening – _you're_ the reason I'm not making any progress!"

"Sherlock," Molly said again. "Get. Out."

"Go screw yourself!" she would later call after his retreating form.


	5. V: 13,149

"Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love."

_Jane Austen_

* * *

V. _13149 Hours Post-Reichenbach_

For six months now, Molly had had no contact with Sherlock, save the blank texts he sent her each Sunday afternoon. He had not returned for his things, nor had Mycroft been by to collect them. If the older Holmes's face was any indication, Sherlock had completely dropped off the map. Two weeks after their argument, Molly had gathered the abandoned clothes and papers into two cardboard boxes that now resided in her office closet.

She'd had to sneak John's jumper back into the flat after all.

Despite Sherlock's silence, Molly had been quick to apologize for her outburst. Nearly every day for a month, Molly had texted Sherlock with some variation of "I'm sorry. Are you safe?" Every Sunday since he'd left, Sherlock had responded only with a blank message.

Though Molly worried after his safety, she soon found that she didn't really miss Sherlock at all. With him effectively out of her life, Molly began to rediscover her confidence and happiness. Perhaps it would be unfair to say that Sherlock had made her past seven years _un_happy, but Molly was beyond relieved to realize that she was no longer nursing that ridiculous crush.

Each time she saw John, however, she was struck with a paralyzing guilt. Of course, she knew that Sherlock wasn't dead; he was simply leaving her alone. John, who had cared more deeply for the man than anyone had really believed, was still grieving. Sherlock wasn't merely out of contact with him.

He was dead.

Since attending Sherlock's memorial service together, Molly was pleased to find that she and John were becoming better friends. He reached out to her, knowing that she had plenty of Sherlock memories to share with him. Perhaps that, too, was why Molly didn't miss the frightful man. John was doing an admirable job of keeping his memory alive.

Molly and John now met for dinner at Angelo's every Thursday. The week before, John had been quiet and drawn. She'd coaxed out him that Sherlock's birthday had just passed. John admitted that he'd picked up a pair of cupcakes from Tesco and had taken them to Sherlock's grave. He had been worried that this meant he was backtracking in his grief. Molly had been quick to reassure him that all was well – cupcakes weren't so different from flowers, after all.

This week, Molly was relieved to find John happier. Angelo had approached them with a candle, but seemed oddly torn as he set it, unlit, on their table.

"He's still carrying a torch, on my behalf," John smirked once Angelo had taken their orders.

"Hm?" Molly asked over her wine glass.

"Angelo was one of the first people to assume that Sherlock and I were a couple. I think right now he assumes that you and I are together. He's trying to remind himself that I can't cheat on someone who's – "

_Eighteen months and still he can't say the word._

"Gone," Molly finished for him.

John nodded his thanks as he sipped his wine.

"Besides, Angelo's still wrong. Tell me more about this guy you've been seeing!"

Molly raised her eyebrows at John.

"How on Earth did you know?"

"I saw you at the Morgan Arms last Saturday."

"What were you doing out that way?"

"Harry wanted to take me out for dinner. No fair avoiding the question, though!"

"Patrick? He's sweet. I met him at a cafe a few weeks ago. Works in public relations. Is not – as far as I can tell – gay or a serial killer."

She bit her tongue as she finished her thought. Even for as well as John was doing, joking about Moriarty probably wasn't great for his mood.

"Sorry," she mumbled as Angelo set their salads in front of them.

"It's okay," John replied with a weak smile.

The rest of their dinner was better, though Molly still felt a bit as though she were walking on egg shells. As she climbed the stairs to her flat, she wondered how she could cheer John up next week – perhaps changing their meeting place to a pub? Inviting Greg along?

She nearly fell over the person huddled outside her front door.

"So sorry!" Molly cried before remembering that one tends not to apologize to squatters.

"Molly?" the bundle of skin and clothes asked.

"Sherlock?"

"Molly, may I – " his breath hitched. "May I come in?"

"Yes! Yes, of course, Sherlock!"

Horrified by his lifeless appearance, Molly tugged open her door as quickly as possible. She helped Sherlock to his feet and guided him into her front room and onto her couch. Toby sniffed at his feet carefully as Molly rushed to heat up some soup for him.

Sherlock accepted a mug of condensed soup without complaint. He downed two before trying to speak again.

"I know you told me to go away – "

"Sherlock, I'm sorry."

"But I really have nowhere else to go. I've – "

He stopped again, and if Molly hadn't known better, she'd have sworn that Sherlock was blinking back tears.

"I've failed in my mission, Molly."

"What?" Molly asked, kneeling before him and taking his hands in hers.

"I faked my death to save my friends. John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. You. I used to my death to get close to Moriarty's network so that I could bring it down. But now – "

He rested his head on their clasped hands.

"I can't finish The Work."

Molly eyed him gravely.

"Are we safe at my flat?"

Sherlock frowned at her interruption.

"Yes. Yes, your flat is safe."

"All right. Then you're going to have tea and proper meal, and then you're going to bed. Whatever has happened, you can tell me in the morning."

Sherlock regarded Molly carefully; she could feel him observing her, adjusting his assumptions about her.

"A shower, too?" he agreed with his question.

"I thought you might be too tired, but absolutely."

Molly was more than a bit shocked to watch Sherlock sitting quietly at her kitchen table. He didn't fidget, didn't speak. He simply squatted on her chair, hands resting on his knees. She fixed him a plate of pasta and poured him a cup of tea. With a glance at his pallid face, she added a glass of orange juice and a banana. Sherlock downed the tea and juice and ate most of his dinner without complaint.

As Sherlock began running the water, Molly began making up the daybed for him once more. She added an extra blanket from her own bed; as thin as he was, he probably needed all the warmth he could get. She made a mental note to pick up Sherlock's boxes from her office as quickly as she could.

A horrible crash yanked Molly from her thoughts. Racing into the bath, she found that Sherlock had collapsed and was now lying, semi conscious in the bottom of her tub. Ignoring the nakedness of one Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes, Molly turned off the shower and grabbed the towel he'd set on the toilet. He spluttered and mumbled as she wrapped it around him, helping him sit up.

"Let's get you into bed, then," she said softly. "Shower in the morning."

Molly smirked as she helped him dress in one of her pairs of oversized track bottoms. The grey was fairly passable for him, but the pink piping – and the fact that they stopped halfway down his calf – really undermined any dignity he hoped to maintain. He stiffly pulled an old St. Bart's hooded sweatshirt over his head as Molly tucked a hot water bottle at his feet. Sherlock fell into a fitful sleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.

Molly woke at half-seven to the cheery sound of her text alert. Rubbing her eyes, she rolled onto her back, pulling up a string of messages from Sherlock.

_I am leaving to see John. May be out of communication for some time. SH_

_Please see Mycroft for explanation._

_Thank you, Molly._

Sighing, Molly rubbed sleep and tears from her eyes. This was it; Sherlock was going home.

"I'm so sorry," she would later sob into John's shoulder.

"Don't be; he's home now," John would reply.


	6. and I: 30,368

_A/N: Thanks for sticking with me through this one! After this, you can expect one more 5+1 in this universe._

"Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love."

_Jane Austen_

* * *

and I. _30,368 Hours Post-Reichenbach_

Molly let herself into the front door to 221B, suit bag slung over her shoulder. She waved warmly to Mrs. Hudson, nearly skipping up the seventeen steps to John and Sherlock's flat. Unable to completely contain her bouncing, she rapped at the door. Sherlock pulled it open, looking drawn and ill. He was wearing his smartest trousers and John's favorite purple shirt, but rather than a jacket, he had thrown his dressing gown over the ensemble. Molly noted that he had rosin on his fingers and that he had smudged the dust on the one sock he'd managed to pull on.

"I'll thank you not to mention my emotional state," he muttered dryly. "Come in."

The flat, Molly was shocked to discover, was _clean_. Sherlock's clutter remained, but it appeared to have been reined into tidy piles. The floor gleamed dully and, from the kitchen, she could smell orange disinfectant wafting through the rest of the flat. Sherlock led Molly into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle.

"It's not too obvious, is it?" Sherlock asked, pulling the suit bag from Molly.

"It may be. A bit," she answered honestly. "But, considering the day John must be having, he'll be too thrilled to care."

"Is John having a bad day?" Sherlock sounded overly worried. "Should I cancel our reservation tonight?"

He fiddled with the plastic hanger in his hand.

Molly's heart softened, looking at the poor man.

"Absolutely not. He's been texting me today and it seems that flu season is giving way to controlled chaos down at the surgery. He's eager to come home because he's tired and because he knows you're up to something."

Sherlock relaxed, hanging the suit bag from the refrigerator.

"Excellent. Well, Molly, updates please."

Molly grinned.

"As you can see, I picked John's best suit up from the cleaners. Stopped by your tailor on the way to get his new shirt as well. Called Angelo to confirm that, as far as the public is concerned, his doors are closed tonight. The Queen herself couldn't get a reservation."

"The Queen hardly needs a reservation to a mid-scale Italian restaurant on – "

"_Focus_, Sherlock."

He tapped the kitchen table nervously.

"Continue."

"Your usual table will be set and ready. If CCTV becomes an issue, you have use of the chef's table in the kitchen."

"Excellent."

Sherlock paused to pull two clean cups from the draining board, pop a tea bag in each, then yank the kettle up before it had completely boiled. Molly accepted the black tea with a small smile.

"No milk?"

"I'm in no state to go to Tesco's today," Sherlock grumbled into his cup.

"What have you been up to, then? Cleaning, clearly."

"Cleaning. Practicing. I was getting dressed and I realized that I hadn't gone over the cadenza in the Mendelssohn in quite some time, and it _is_ one of John's favorites."

"So you hopped up, one sock on and one sock off, to play through it?" Molly asked with a grin.

"It's for John," Sherlock said slowly, enunciating each syllable.

Molly chose to ignore his tone.

"Does he have any idea?" she asked gleefully.

"You tell me," Sherlock sighed dramatically. "You said he knows I'm up to something."

"Well, yes. But I think he just assumes that you're taking him out for a fancy dinner."

"I _am_ taking him out for a fancy dinner."

"Yes, but I'm pretty sure that he thinks this is just an anniversary kind of night."

"It is. Today is precisely five years since I met him."

"And John is sure that _that_ is as sentimental as you're going to get tonight. It's not your proper anniversary, after all. Nor is it Lasting Power of Attorney Day."

Sherlock grinned at that one.

Molly pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and encouraged Sherlock to join her. He sat beside her, long, tacky fingers wrapped around his teacup.

"How are you going to do it?" she asked, a conspiratorial smile playing about her face.

"I'm closing down the first restaurant we ever ate at, exactly five years after the day we met. I think my actions should speak loudly enough," he answered, falsely brusque.

Then, with a wild flash in his eyes, he turned fully toward Molly and grinned. An honest, joyful smile stretched from ear to ear of his silly face. Molly's breath caught in her chest as she wondered, not for the first time, how she had ever earned this much of Sherlock's trust.

By counting, would be Sherlock's reply. Despite the awkwardness of her crush, she had always believed Sherlock, had always placed her trust in him. And when he had no-one else to turn to, he had returned the favor. For eighteen months, she had kept him secreted and safe. In the time since he had come home to John, she had stood in support of the mad consulting detective. She had grown into one of their closest, dearest friends.

On quiet evenings spent at dinner parties in 221B, Molly often wondered how she'd ever thought she could love Sherlock in the first place. This rude, cold, callous man could never be anyone's but John's.

And Sherlock was impossible, she had reflected. He had asked far too much of her in those eighteen months; he could have easily gotten her killed.

Sherlock pulled a small box from his pocket and slid it toward Molly.

"After dessert, which I will absolutely eat, I'm going to tell John a few _personal_ things –"

She smiled. There were few people to whom Sherlock would admit the existence of "_personal_ things."

" – and I'll show him this."

Molly opened the box and smiled.

"I estimated the size by measuring John while he slept."

_Of course he did._

"Congratulations, you twit!" Molly would later shout into her mobile phone, laughing at Sherlock's shock and John's complete joy.


End file.
